Battlecruiser Alamo - 7 - Battlecruiser Alamo: Sacred Honor

by Richard Tongue

   “One of theirs, two of ours.”

   “Both the others?”

   “Gone,” he said with finality, then looked down at his console, continuing, “And we’re next, by the look of it. We’ve got two missiles on our tail, and they’re coming in hot. Can you do that afterburner trick?”

   “Not this time,” she said. “Get onto that panel of yours.”

   “I have been,” he replied, but he continued to work despite his protests, his fingers running over the keyboards as he tried to feed misleading data to the missiles. None of it seemed to be doing any good, and Barbara watched the warheads close into their terminal track. No time to bail-out, and even if they did, based on Alamo’s battle plan that would just be a fast ticket to captivity. She’d had a good look at Discovery when they rescued the Hercules crew, and had no plans for such a fate.

   With a wild smile, she turned the engines off, waited for a second, then turned them back on again, a pulse that curved the approaching missiles onto a new course, actually gave them a few seconds more. Her mind raced as she tried to think of ideas.

   “I’ve armed the airlock bolts,” Hooke said. “Let’s get out of here?”

   “Don’t be stupid,” she reflexively replied, then turned to him with a grin. “Wait a minute, that’s a great idea!”

   Locking down the internal doors with the flick of another switch, she held her hand over the airlock hatch control. This was going to have to be timed to the microsecond, and whatever happened, the shuttle was still going to be crippled, but it might give them a chance of survival. As the missiles curved in for the kill, just a few meters away, she slammed the button then ducked back in her seat.

   The shuttle spun around with the force of the explosion, warning sirens sounding from thousands of hull breaches in the aft compartment, the primary engines now nothing but ruined equipment that would be next to impossible to identify. Ahead, the stars tumbled, the few remaining attitude thrusters completely unequal to the task of stabilizing the ship, but as she looked up at her status board, she shook her head in disbelief; they still had hull integrity.

   Hooke turned to her, then said, “What the hell did you do?”

   “Threw the aft airlock door at them. The detonation was about a hundred meters short of us. Enough to wreck us, but not to destroy us.” She looked around at the sensors, at the battle now far behind them, “Hopefully they’ll think we’re dead. I’ll have to work out some way of contacting Alamo.”

   The lights began to fade, and Hooke glanced up at panels as the readouts flashed out, one after another, “Main and emergency power is out. We’d better get in our spacesuits.” Reaching up to the overhead locker, he said, “What the hell do we do now?”

   “Wait and see who wins the battle. Someone will pick us up, eventually. I hope.”

   “You hope?”

   “Beats being dead.”

   As she nimbly slid into her spacesuit, she took one final look at the sensor display before it finally went dark. Two of the boarding shuttles had managed to get past her, and by now would be on their final approach to Alamo. Twenty, thirty troops that would shortly be racing through the corridors with murder in their minds.

   All that was left on board to face them was Cooper and a couple of troops, and whatever technicians were unfortunate enough to find themselves in the battle area. Alamo was facing attacks from all quarters, missiles ranging from all angles towards her, and the odds of victory had collapsed from slim to impossible.

   She chuckled to herself as the spacesuit completed its final locking sequence, the status lights winking green one after another. Here she was in a drifting piece of wreckage tumbling through space in a random direction, her life now measured only by the life support capability of her spacesuit, and she probably had the greatest chance of survival of any Alamo crewman in the system. And she would have given anything to be back there with the rest of them, instead of sitting here, waiting and praying for a miracle.

  Chapter 25

   The trio of troopers pushed through the corridors, swinging from hand-hold to hand-hold, cursing the lack of gravity that made them cumbersome, dancing past huddled technicians as they raced to the calculated impact site. Cooper’s datapad kept screaming updates from the bridge, tactical reports giving projections of the number of enemies he was likely to encounter, all of them based on nothing but guesswork.

   He shouldn’t be having to do this. There ought to be squads of troopers stationed around the ship at key points, waiting to ambush any arriving forces, not a half-squad racing to try and get to the incursion point in time, before the invaders could have a chance to establish a foothold.

   “We’re here, guys,” he said to his two remaining comrades. “This is where we make our stand.”

   Space-tight doors had already sealed the other end of the corridor, long enough to at least buy them a little time, and this was the only other way through. Behind them was engineering, the heart of the ship, and a place they could not afford to lose. If the Cabal forces took control of that, the battle was over, and they were captured.

   The ship rocked, and Duvalier braced herself, asking, “That was three decks up. Are we in the wrong place?”

   “Missile impact near the sensor decks,” Cooper said. “We’re next.”

   Lane drifted up behind him, leading a pack of technicians who looked at least minimally comfortable with the weapons they were brandishing in their hands. She clapped Cooper on the back, then gestured to her force to spread out.

   “Where do you want us?” she asked.

   “Don’t you want to take command?” he replied.

   Shaking her head, she said, “You’re the expert, Corporal, and I’ll defer to your judgment.”

   “Good god, a sensible officer,” Duvalier said. “I suppose we had to find one eventually.”

   Steele’s voice screamed from the loudspeakers, “Impact in three seconds. All decks, brace for heavy impact!”

   “Here we go, everyone,” Cooper said. “Choose your shots, don’t fire indiscriminately, but blast hell out of anyone not wearing our uniform.”

   A loud thud smashed into the hull to their side, sending everyone flying to the far corners of the passageway, rendering any attempt to take cover moot; dust and debris scattered through the air, a thick cloud swirling around as the air filters struggled to cope. A blinding light shone through the air as the hull was torn in pieces, the boarding shuttles creating their own way into the ship, an intermittent thin whistle of atmosphere leaking before the holes could be sealed.

   This was years, decades ahead of anything that the Confederation had to offer; their boarding shuttles were far less sophisticated, but already Cooper could see the tactical flaw. Once these shuttles had attached themselves to a ship, there was no easy way of getting them off again. There was no possibility of retreat; it was victory or death, nothing more. Presumably that kept the troops well motivated.

   “Wait for them to emerge,” he said, looking around at the over-eager technicians while the scrambled back into the limited cover the corridors provided. “Don’t waste your shots.”

   A crack flew through the air, someone obviously failing to heed his words, and he looked around to try and work out who; no-one volunteered a sheepish grin, so he focused on the site of the shuttle impact. Then the lights began to flicker, and Duggan began to curse.

   “They’ve taken over local environmental control,” he said.

   “Don’t worry,” Cooper replied. “They need to breathe as well.”

   Alamo rocked as another missile slammed in worryingly close to them, and then with a huge eruption of noise, the side of the hull blew out, once again sending dust and shards of metal racing through the air; a couple of careless technicians were caught by the shrapnel, tumbling back with bloodstains running across their uniforms.

   “Let them have it! Volley fire!” Cooper yelled, shooting b
lindly into the light, disobeying his own advice. Shapes began to emerge, armored figures pushing into the corridor, weapons at the ready. Already their fire had begun to do some damage to them; a trio of bodies were also being pushed out into the corridor.

   A hail of fire burst from the incoming troops, and Cooper’s small force was pinned into their positions, hardly daring to risk the occasional shot of return fire in a desperate bid to stop them. More smoke billowed through the gap in the hull, far too much for it to be anything other than intentional camouflage, and it was doing its job well.

   Cooper lined up a shot, trying to ignore the screams of his dying and wounded men, trying to push back the memories of the last battle he had fought, and one of the troopers fell. They were doing damage, that much was certain, but they just weren’t doing enough to keep the force from pushing past their position – already they were beginning their advance.

   Glancing around at the technicians, hopelessly out of their depth, the dead and the dying drifting down the corridor, he shook his head. This wasn’t war, this was a slaughter. He looked over at Duggan and Duvalier, doggedly fighting, and smiled.

   “Troopers advance, technicians retreat!”

   He began to push forward, but Lane snatched at his ankle, “That’s suicide, Corporal.”

   “I’ve got a plan,” he replied, but she shook her head then turned back to the others.

   “What are you waiting for?” she yelled. “Get out of here.” Looking at Cooper, she said, “Let’s go.”

   With a battle yell, Cooper pushed forward, firing shots into the air to keep the enemy pinned down, racing up towards the environmental controls at the ceiling. Duvalier screamed briefly, then was silent, a bullet catching her in the stomach and slamming her body into the wall. Duggan pushed on, firing his gun, as Cooper swung up into the maintenance fairing. Lane was holding back, standing by the door, cracking bullets at the enemy as the technicians swarmed out.

   The Cabal forces had paused for a moment, not because of anything the troopers were doing, but to consolidate for their advance. Shots still rang out, bouncing across the walls, but the three of them that remained were in deep enough cover that taking them would not be cheap.

   “Surrender, and you will live,” a heavily accented voice yelled. “You will have one chance!”

   Duggan fired a shot to answer the anonymous figure, and Cooper looked at the hole in the wall from his vantage point as the smoke cleared. As he thought; it was one long seal, no airlock; the locks would simply get in the way, slowing the advance. No wonder they’d needed to secure local environmental control, but he had drifted in right by the override controls. He gestured behind him for the others to provide some covering fire, and began to work, fumbling at the unfamiliar systems.

   He felt a hand tugging at him, and saw Lane pushing him down towards cover, bullets cracking past him as he tumbled randomly away. With one hand, she started working the controls, then she turned towards him.

   “I know what you are doing, but I actually know how to do it!” she yelled. “Get into cover and give me supporting fire, Corporal! This is my job.”

   Somehow, the bullets missed Cooper as he slammed into the wall, recoiling behind a convenient bulkhead. The invading forces had worked out what was going on, but before they could jump up to Lane, Cooper and Duggan were on the case, pinning them down with suppressing fire, bullets flying into the bulkhead on the other side, ripping at the metal. Sooner or later, someone was going to get past them, but Lane only needed a few dozen seconds to complete her work.

   Bodies were drifting around the room, many of them still alive, but they continued their grim work; then, Cooper felt a sharp blast of pain in his hand, and his pistol drifted away into the corridor as he looked down at the bloody mess at the end of his arm, screaming in agony. Duggan looked at him, but he shook his head.

   “Keep firing, dammit!”

   A pair of Cabal troopers tried to take the opportunity of the distraction to make their way up to Lane, but Duggan made short work of them, slamming another clip home and tossing the used one away. Cooper was grimacing through the pain, watching his blood dribble past his fingers into the corridor, gasping for breath. If he moved, he would be shot, but if he didn’t move, he was probably dead in any case.

   He looked around, hunting for Duvalier’s body; he saw it tucked into a corner, a smile on her face, her pistol still locked into a death grip in her hand. Another friend dead, and with Barbara somewhere outside on a suicide mission, he didn’t have that many left. Bullets flew around, ricocheting from corners, thudding into corpses and dangerously close to his position; his vision began to blur as he tried to suppress the shock, tried to hold on for long enough for the battle to be over.

   “That’s it!” Lane said, throwing the last few shots. She took an experimental push away from the console, but a series of cracks convinced her to remain in cover. Cooper looked up at her and managed a smile, then turned to Duggan.

   She looked at the troopers, smiled, and yelled, “Get out of here! I’ll hold them off!”

   “Lieutenant…”

   “Go! That’s an order!”

   Cooper attempted to comply, but his hand was a ball of agony, and every movement made him wince; he’d never be able to move fast enough to get out of the chamber, never mind dodge the bullets that were flying in their direction.

   “What?”

   “In about thirty seconds,” Cooper hissed through the pain, “the atmosphere is going to be vented from this section. Get moving.”

   Duggan nodded, tossed his weapon away, and snatched Cooper by the belt, pushing off towards the nearby blast doors. Lane smiled, firing a few shots to keep the Cabal troopers pinned down as they desperately made for their shuttle, hoping to find some sanctuary there, some means of escape. If the plan worked, it would only at best postpone the inevitable.

   “Leave me, dammit,” Cooper said. “I’m slowing you down.”

   “Shut up, Corporal,” Duggan replied, “You saved my life, now it’s my turn.”

   The two of them flew through the hatch, sirens sounding around them, just as it began to slam shut. A fusillade of shots, the result of desperation, followed them through the hatch as, with a loud click, it locked into position. One button press could have opened it again, but the series of explosions from the other side of the hatch, strong enough to rattle the hull, told him that they had run out of time.

   “What the hell happened?” Duggan said, coughing twice in quick succession.

   “Fire suppression system. In the event of an emergency this close to engineering, it blows a hole in the hull to expose the area to vacuum. I guess the troopers didn’t know about it.”

   “Lane?”

   Shaking his head, Cooper said, “How come I only like her after she’s dead?” The ship shook once again, another missile impacting somewhere up above them. “Go get to a damage control station. I’ll try and get to sickbay.”

   “No way, I’ll get you there.”

   “Are you ever going to obey orders? There’s a battle going on, and they need your help to fight it.”

   “You could fit what I know about engineering in a couple of kilobytes, Corporal, and you’d never make it on your own. Now keep quiet and let me try and save your life, damn it. Besides, you weren’t the only one who got hit.”

   Cooper looked at Duggan, and saw him clutching at a slowly expanding red patch on his side, grimacing from the pain. He tossed Cooper into the elevator, then staggered down himself, collapsing onto the deck, coughing up blood, a rattle in his throat. Alamo’s last espatier jabbed his hand on the control, sending it down towards sickbay, then collapsed into unconsciousness.

   The last thing he saw, unnoticed by anyone else on the ship, was a bright blue flash from astern, another ship jumping into the system.

  Chapter 26

   Orlova looked at the battered hulk of Alamo on t
he viewscreen, shaking her head in despair. Out-gassing from dozens of punctures in the hull, gouges ripped out of her side, another explosion from a missile impact as she watched. The debris of destroyed ships littered space – Alamo certainly wasn’t going down without a fight – but going down she was, and soon, unless something was done.

   “Frank, I want firing solutions on the nearest battlecruiser, and I want them yesterday. Tear holes in the bastard. Sergeant, I don’t care how you do it, get me Alamo, we need to try and get some tactical co-ordination in this nightmare. Race, get us into the fight, top speed.”

   “On it, ma’am,” he said, and Hercules shuddered as he pushed the old ship to the limit of its acceleration, the hull straining from the might of her engines. The ship shook as Nelyubov raced to obey her order, five missiles leaping forward from the ship towards the nearest target, lines appearing on the tactical display as they raced to connect with the enemy.

   “Another salvo in fifteen seconds, boss,” Nelyubov said. “Then twenty seconds after that, and then we’re back on the fabricators.”

   “Keep firing, any target you want, we’ve certainly got lots to choose from.”

   Carpenter, looking over Mathis’ shoulder, was pale as she glanced over to Orlova, “Two more hits on Alamo. Six now since we’ve arrived. They’re tearing her to pieces.” She peered back at the panel, then continued, “Alamo just fired again! Four missiles, good and true.”

   “See if you can help them, Frank,” Orlova said. “Mathis, I need Alamo and I need it now!”

   “Got them!” he said, and Marshall’s battered visage appeared on the viewscreen.

   “Maggie?”